No Giving Up
by catyse
Summary: This is a sort of not really Royai because there's not much romance if any going on BUT there are implications etc.  Set during ep 10 of Brotherhood, and I play with time a little because they let me.  XD  Inspired by Crossfade's "No Giving Up".  REVISED!
1. Chapter 1

Roy was working late that night. He had some extra paperwork to clear off of his desk before he could go home. He had read and signed and underlined and edited and examined until all hours of the night, and he was irritated as hell with it all. He'd just dropped off the last blasted document and gotten back to his office to retrieve his things and head out when the phone rang. Mustang picked up the receiver.

"There's a Lieutenant Colonel Hughes on hold for you. He claims it's urgent," the clear female voice of the operator said.

"Of course he does," muttered Mustang. "Put him through." Mustang waited until he heard the click of the line being connected, and then he spoke without giving Hughes the chance to say anything. "Look, Hughes, I don't have time for daughter stories." There was silence on the other side of the line. No, not silence... there was the faint sound of breathing. Labored breathing. "Hey, Hughes." Nothing. "Hughes. You okay? Hughes!" The line went dead. Mustang looked at the receiver. He had a horrible feeling in his gut, but there was nothing he could do now. He sighed, and set down the receiver. "It's probably nothing," he muttered to himself, and put on his hat. He walked out of the office, down the hall, and out of the building into the night air of the East City. It was a warm night, but Roy shivered as he got into his car and drove to his apartment. He just could not shake the feeling that something terrible had happened. And that phone call… why hadn't Hughes answered him? _Damn,_ he thought. _That crazy fool had better have a good explanation tomorrow._

Roy slept badly that night. He couldn't seem to get comfortable. It was too hot in his apartment, the covers were too heavy, and the air was too damn dry. It all reminded him of Ishval, and that didn't help his sleep any, either. It was practically morning by the time he finally drifted off, and a few hours later he was awoken by the damn irritating radio alarm. Roy cursed it as he groggily rolled out of bed. He didn't even bother to turn it off. After he got out of the shower, he pulled on his uniform pants and sat on the edge of his bed to dry his hair. Half of his brain was still fuzzy, and the other half listened apathetically to the morning news.

"So look forward to another hot day in East City, folks, and now back to you, Carla." The voice on the radio switched to a dull female one. "Thanks Dave. We have some tragic breaking news this morning, I'm afraid. A military officer was found shot dead in a phone booth in Central late last night." Roy froze. The announcer's voice faded into muffled sound waves as a billon different thoughts raced through Mustang's head all at the same time, culminating in a rushing, booming, single word. _Hughes_.

Mustang vaulted off the bed and threw on a shirt. He pulled on his boots without bothering to put on socks, grabbed his jacket, and ran to his car, terror welling up inside of him. The car roared into life, and Roy tore through the streets to East Command, weaving in and out of traffic at top speed. He screeched to a halt in front of the building, not bothering to park or lock the car. He shoved the key into his pocket and grabbed his jacket, pulling it on over his badly buttoned shirt as he ran up the steps into the main foyer. He sprinted through the halls to his office, where his team was already assembled, waiting for him. Without bothering to observe any formalities, he said curtly,

"Come on, we're going to Central. No questions," and he ran back out the doors. His officers followed him and piled into his car. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but Roy didn't care. _If I hurry, we can make the 7:50._ Mustang raced to the train station and actually managed to park this time. He stalked through the station, half running, his face warning anyone who tired to stop him that there would be hell to pay if they delayed him. He didn't even bother to buy tickets. When he arrived at his desired train, he walked onto it without even glancing at the porter. When the man began to protest, Riza took him aside and said pointedly,

"A military officer has just requested passage on this train. Will you deny it to him?" The man shook his head timidly. "Good," she said, "now go and tell the conductor that we want top speed, and if we don't get it we'll know. Also, this just became an express train to Central. No stops in between. Any objections? Good. Go tell the passengers." The man nodded, and ran off towards the front of the train. She caught up with Mustang, who had commandeered a private car without objection. He was sitting by the window, fists clenched on his knees.

"Colonel-" Hawkeye began, but Mustang cut her off.

"No questions, Lieutenant." She sat down.

"Yes, sir." The train pulled out of its station at 7:50 precisely, a first for the Amestrian train system, and it picked up speed at an alarming rate as it left the station. The trip seemed to take forever, even though it only took about 45 minutes in reality. Havoc was constantly going out into the corridor for smoke breaks, and one by one, each of Mustang's subordinates went out to join him and discuss the reason behind Mustang's sudden fervor. None of them knew anything.

When the train finally began to slow, Mustang stood without a word and swept into the corridor to stand by the exit. His officers all followed him, much to the annoyance of the passengers, although no one said a word. Before the train had even come to a complete stop, Mustang had opened the door and dropped to the platform. He went straight to the street and found a taxicab.

"Get in," he told his officers, who obliged. To the driver he said, "I'm commandeering this vehicle for important military business. Give me the key." He held out one ungloved hand. The man thought about protesting, but instead just grumbled and handed over the key. Mustang slid into the driver's side and had pulled away from the curb almost before he'd closed his door. None of his officers said anything as they raced through the streets of Central, heading straight for Central Command. The closer they got, the harder Mustang's heart pumped. The terror was beginning to take him over, and his hands trembled on the steering wheel. The feeling in his gut tore at him, and he prayed that he was wrong. When they finally reached their destination, he stopped the car in front of the steps and vaulted out of it, not even bothering to turn it off. Riza grabbed the steering wheel and scooted over into the driver's seat to take control of it before it could start rolling away.

"What's come over the Colonel?" Breda asked.

"I don't know," said Riza, "but when he says jump, we jump." She went to go park the car, and then followed the trail of confused faces her commanding officer had left. Mustang had run up the steps to the main entrance, and sprinted straight to Hughes' office. When he reached it, he slammed open the door.

"Hughes!" he yelled, and then stopped breathing altogether. There were several somber-faced officials methodically going through Hughes' office, cleaning it out. Roy's vision wavered in and out, and every sound was steeped in a persistent ringing noise that Mustang could not shake. One of the officials recognized him.

"Colonel Mustang? Colonel Mustang, sir, are you all right?" Roy snapped back halfway into reality at the words, realized what he was seeing, and whispered,

"No." Still dazed, he turned and staggered back the way he came, breaking into a run as he repeated the word, "NO!" He ran through the halls in the opposite direction, heading straight for the morgue. When he got there, he was winded and out of breath, but he fought off the officers trying to restrain him and shoved open the door. Maes Hughes was lying on the table, pale and cold. Mustang moved forward.

"Hughes," he said, reaching out for his friend. The doctor tried to stop him and Mustang threw him out of the way. "Hughes!" He reached the table and grabbed his friend's shoulders, shaking him. "Get up Hughes, this is no time for you to die, dammit! Hughes!" He slapped his friend's face, trying to revive him. "Hughes! God damn it wake up! Hughes! Don't you dare do this to me!" Mustang slapped him again. "God damn it! Hughes! Get up this instant! Don't you dare die on me! I won't allow it, dammit! Get up! Hughes! Hughes, no! NO!" Several officers had come into the room and were attempting to drag Mustang away from his friend. He fought them off, ignoring all their shouts, until he heard one voice.

"Colonel Mustang Sir!" It rang out clearly above the rest, and Roy stopped moving. He didn't need to look at the doorway to see that Lieutenant Hawkeye was standing in it with a pistol pointed at his head. But he wasn't concerned with that just now. He turned back to Hughes' body.

"Maes," he said, grabbing the dead man's lapels, "how could you do this to me? Get up, please. Maes. God please don't die." He slumped to the floor, one hand still holding onto his old friend's shirt. "Hughes," he whispered as Hawkeye stepped forward and put away her gun.

"Let's get you out of here, sir," she said gently, and lifted him up onto his feet, placing one of his arms around her shoulders for support. Then she slowly led him out of the morgue, past the stunned faces of her team, through the halls, out the door, and down the steps to a small sitting area outside. She lowered him onto a bench and sat down next to him as he slumped forward, face in his trembling hands. She looked at him, but remained silent. Her own grief was too great and too near the surface for her to trust herself to speak. When she and the team had walked into Command to try to catch up with the Colonel, she had asked the nearest person which way he had gone. When she had noticed that he was dressed in black, however, she had asked him the reason for his attire, and he had told her about the Lieutenant Colonel. The entire team had been stunned. They all knew how close he and the Colonel had been, and quite suddenly the reason for Mustang's eccentric behavior had become clear. They had all been close to Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, simply because Mustang had. The news of his death had affected them all greatly. Feury had begun to cry right then and there, and even Falman had needed to sit down.

Riza leaned back against the bench and looked up into the treetops, trying to regain some self-control and push her sadness deep into her heart. Seeing Mustang like that had hit a chord in her that not even the news of Hughes' death had. If she had to, in public at least, she could deal with her friends being killed in the line of duty, being snatched away from their families, dying long before their time was due. But seeing the Colonel in such a state had almost been too much for her to bear. She had never seen him so distraught in all her life, and she had known the Colonel for quite a while, and through some very tough times. But the utter despair that consumed him now ate at her soul, and it was all she could do to stop herself from joining the Colonel in tears.

They sat next to each other for a long time, Riza looking up into the treetops, and Roy crouched over, tears streaming silently down his face and into his palms. After a while, Mustang's tears ceased to flow so heavily, and he let his hands fall to his knees. He too leaned back and looked up at the sky without really seeing it. Riza looked over at him.

"Are you all right now, sir?" Mustang closed his eyes and slowly hung his head.

"No," he whispered. An aching pain swept through Riza's heart, but she locked it away before it could take her over.

"With respect, sir, you look awful." Mustang laughed weakly one or two times, but it turned into just more shuddering tears. He lifted a hand to his eyes, and sat for a while, shaking a little with each breath. After a moment, he lowered his hand.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye-" His voice broke. "Riza," he whispered.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly.

"Please, take me home."

"Of course, sir." Riza stood, helped Mustang to his feet. She slowly walked him out to the car he'd commandeered. She helped him into the passenger's seat, then leaned down.

"Just a moment, sir. I'll go inform the team." Mustang nodded, and reached for the door to shut it, but his hands were shaking so much that he could hardly keep his arm extended. Riza shut the door for him, and went to go get the rest of Mustang's team. They somberly followed her back out to the car, and got in. No complaints were made about the lack of space.

They drove in silence back through the streets of Central. Roy was quiet, his head bent so far down that Riza couldn't see his eyes. His bangs were covering them partially. She could see that his hair was still a bit damp from the shower he had taken that morning. He looked so utterly hopeless, so despairing.

Riza turned her attention back to the road. She would not allow herself to be overtaken with grief again. She pushed her emotions deep down inside of her, and concentrated on driving. After a few minutes, she pulled over and parked the car on the side of the road in front of the train station. The man whose car they had taken was still standing by the roadside. Riza supposed that he hadn't really had anywhere else to go. She helped the Colonel out of the car, and gave the key to Havoc to return to the taxi driver with apologies. Then she sent Breda to go buy tickets for the next train back to East City.

They waited in the station until the train came, then quietly boarded with the other passengers, and found their car. Breda had gotten them a private car again, and Riza shot him a grateful glance as she lowered Mustang to the seat. There was complete silence in the compartment as train rolled out of the station at a leisurely pace. Mustang did nothing but stare out the window for the entire journey. When the train finally rolled into the East City station, the cluster of officers disembarked with all the other passengers, and they walked slowly back to the place where Mustang had parked. Riza drove them all back to Eastern Command, and then turned around to take Mustang back to his apartment. The Colonel had not said a word since Central, but somehow Riza didn't see fit to break the silence, so she drove quietly until they reached Roy's apartment building.

"We're here, sir." Mustang didn't respond, so Riza turned off the car and got out. She opened Mustang's door for him, and helped him stand again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm helpless right now, I can't even walk…"

"Not at all, sir. Come on. Let's go." She locked the car and supported him up the stairs to his apartment. He hadn't even locked the door; it was still half open from where he'd rushed out. She nudged it open with her boot, checking to make sure that the room was empty before entering. Then she led the Colonel inside and removed his arm from around her shoulders.

"Just a minute, sir, I need to go clear the rest of the apartment." Mustang nodded. Riza set the car key down on a table, took out a gun, and moved through the rooms. There weren't many of them. She cleared the bathroom and the closet on the right side of the hall, and then moved into the bedroom on the left side. It was also empty. Everything in the house was neat and orderly, just as would be expected from a military man, but the bed was unmade, and a towel was thrown carelessly across it, as were pajamas. The alarm radio was still on. Riza turned it off. She came back into the main room, where Mustang hadn't moved a muscle but to lift his head to stare at the ceiling.

"Apartment clear, sir," she said, replacing her gun.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said softly, voice choked. Riza swallowed, pushing down the pain.

"Not at all, sir. Is there anything else you need me for, sir?"

"No, Lieutenant, you're dismissed," Roy said.

"Yes, sir," she said, and began to walk towards the door.

"You can take my car, Lieutenant," said Mustang in the same choked voice as before. Riza stopped, and looked at him.

"That's all right, sir. I'll just take the bus."

"Very well, Lieutenant." Riza nodded. She moved forward again, and had just walked past him when he caught her arm. She turned to face him. He had hung his head again, and she could see the streams of tears once more flowing down his face.

"Riza, I-" he whispered. "I can't-" He clenched his jaw as the tears flowed faster. Suddenly Roy embraced her, burying his face in her shoulder and clinging to her like a lost child. Riza was stunned for a moment, and just stood there wide-eyed as her Colonel sobbed uncontrollably into her uniform. Then she closed her eyes and put her arms around him, running one hand through his hair soothingly. They stood like that for a long time until Mustang's tears once more stopped, and his grip on her lessened slightly. He gained marginal control of himself, and pushed himself gently away from her, one hand on her shoulder, the other still touching her waist.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just can't believe he's gone." Her hand tightened on his side, and she brushed his bangs out of his face so she could see his eyes.

"I know," she said simply, locking his gaze. He looked into her eyes and saw sadness there to match his own. He saw something else, though, which he didn't think she'd meant to show him. Concern. He broke the gaze, and lowered his head a bit, forcing out a small, brief smile.

"I'll be fine, Riza," he said. "Thank you." He let his hands drop to his sides, and she did the same.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Roy said, straightening as much as he could under the oppressive weight he still felt. "You're dismissed. For real this time."

"Very well, sir," Hawkeye said and saluted. She turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. "Oh and sir," she said, turning.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Take care of yourself, sir." Mustang smiled briefly again.

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Goodbye sir."

"Goodbye Lieutenant." She turned away and closed the door behind her. Roy listened to her footsteps on the stairs until they faded away.


	2. Chapter 2

Riza walked down the stairs and out of Mustang's apartment building to the street. She walked to the bus stop, not really listening to the hum of the city around her, but not thinking of anything else, either. Her mind was numb with the pain of loss. She took the bus to Eastern Command. It was crowded, so she stood. She wasn't really paying attention to anything as the bus swayed back and forth with the flow of traffic. It was only a few stops to Command, and soon the bus came to a stop, the automated voice announcing their location in exaggerated tones. Riza stepped numbly down off the bus and walked the few paces up the street to her workplace. When she entered she went straight to Mustang's office. She dealt with all his paperwork that she legally could, and when asked where the Colonel was, she replied,

"The Colonel is indisposed, and taking sick leave for the day." She took down messages and dealt with the little details of every day life, trying her best not to think about the Colonel or the Lieutenant Colonel. It was difficult even for Riza to keep her composure, so she wasn't surprised when Havoc backed quietly into the office and shut the door. He turned around, and tears were streaming down his face unhidden.

"Hey, Lieutenant," he said, voice cracking. "Sorry about this. I knew Lieutenant Colonel Hughes pretty well, and, well…" the young man hung his head, and his grip on the door handle tightened. "I just… needed a moment," he whispered, and walked slowly over to a chair. He sat with a sigh, tears still streaming down his face. Hawkeye put down the document she was reading with a small sigh.

"Of course, Havoc," she said. "We all need comfort right now."

"He was such a good man," Havoc said quietly, voice strained.

"That he was," Riza said. They sat in silence for a while. Riza didn't feel right working while one of her comrades was taking solace in her company, so she left the document on the desk and took the seat beside Havoc. She hoped that being closer to him would help. She remembered that when she was young, her mother would always sit close to her when she cried. She would never touch her daughter- theirs were not a touching family- but she remembered that her mother's warmth and proximity had soothed her somewhat. So she sat by Havoc's lean form, trying to comfort him with her mere presence. After a few moments, he heaved a small sigh, and ran his hand down his face, wiping away the tears. He stood up.

"I don't know how you do it, Hawkeye. I've been breaking down every fifteen minutes. The others are in no great condition, either." Riza didn't answer. "Well," he said wearily, "I suppose there's work to be done." Riza nodded, and Havoc left the room. She went back to her paperwork.

The day passed far too slowly. When five o'clock finally came, Riza pushed back the Colonel's chair and stood up. She turned off the lights and locked up the office, walking slowly through the halls. She tried to keep her mind on mundane things, but the halls seemed somehow empty, and she had a hollow feeling as she got into her car and shut the door. _Dinner_, she thought to herself. _I need dinner. So does Black Hayate. I wonder if the Colonel has eaten._ She remembered how his face had looked when she had left that morning. _He probably hasn't_, she thought, and sighed. _I should let him be alone until tomorrow. He'll be in no condition to drive, probably. I'll take him to work._ She felt a little better with a plan, so she started the car and drove to the market to pick up a few things for dinner.

Black Hayate greeted her when she got home, and she fed him before preparing her own meal. She sat alone at her table to eat, but when she'd gotten settled and looked at the food in front of her, she suddenly felt sick. She turned her face away and pushed back the plate. Black Hayate came over to her and nudged her leg with his nose. She reached down a hand to scratch him behind the ears.

"Hey, boy," she said to him. "You seem sad today. Maybe you know what's going on, too." Black Hayate looked up at her with his soulful eyes, but didn't say a word. She sighed, and picked the puppy up. He licked her face once, and then rested his little head in the crook of her neck. Riza petted him for a while, and then held him out in front of her.

"You do know what happened, don't you?" Black Hayate whined. "I know, boy," Riza said, holding the dog close to her once more. "I'll miss him, too." Black Hayate squirmed in her grip, and she lowered him to the floor. He curled up at her feet, still whining a little. Riza looked down at him, and for some reason all her misery welled up inside her until the pressure was unbearable, and a tear fell down her cheek. Her hands balled into fists and she clenched her jaw as more tears forced themselves out of her. "Dammit," she whispered, and for the first time in years, allowed herself to cry. She wept for hours, letting the grief she had bottled up inside of her flow out. When she finally stopped crying, she had fallen asleep at her table, meal still untouched.

Mustang had spent the day in anguish, alternating between periods of such complete numbness and inactivity that he would wonder whether or not he himself was still alive and periods of such intense pain and grief that he felt as though all of his insides were being torn apart again and again, mercilessly, and it was all he could do not to scream. That evening, he had developed a fierce need to speak to Gracia. He felt so helpless and pathetic, squirming in agony alone in his apartment. He hadn't even thought of his friend's family until a few hours ago. He hated himself for that.

Mustang wiped a tear out of his five o'clock shadow. He tried to concentrate on the telephone in front of him. His hands were still shaking so much that it was hard for him to dial a number. Half of him didn't know why he was calling Gracia. He just needed to hear her voice. It took him about five minutes to dial his old friend's number successfully. He waited as the phone rang, and then the line clicked on, and Gracia's voice said,

"Hello?" She had been crying. Mustang could tell by the quality of her voice. He hesitated, half-considering just hanging up.

"Hello, Gracia," he said eventually.

"Roy," she said. Her voice sounded surprised.

"Gracia, I-" Mustang hesitated. "I just called to… offer my condolences." There was silence on the other side of the line for a moment.

"Thank you, Roy," Gracia said. "I know this can't be easy for you, either." Mustang sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Nothing was said for a few moments, and then both of them tried to speak at once. They both apologized awkwardly, and Gracia told for Roy to go ahead and speak first.

"I was just wondering how you're holding up." Gracia sighed.

"Honestly Roy, not well. Elysia doesn't understand what's happened. I still can't believe he's gone. I keep waiting for him to come waltzing through the door like he always did. When that officer knocked on the door last night, it was every nightmare I'd ever had coming true, and I still feel like I'm waiting to wake up from it." A small sob escaped her, and the muscles in Roy's chest constricted. "But it's not a nightmare," she continued, whispering now. "It's real, and I'll never see him alive again. He'll never come home again." She broke down into tears for a few moments, but then she sniffed and quickly wiped them away. She turned around to look at the source of the footsteps she'd heard behind her. Roy heard a small voice over the phone. It was far away and quiet, but he heard it all the same.

"Is Daddy home, Mommy?" Elysia had wandered out into the living room in her nightgown, holding a stuffed toy rabbit. Gracia held her arm out for her daughter, wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and picked the child up.

"No, honey," she said, kissing the top of the little girl's head. "And what are you doing up? I put you to bed already."

"I heard you talking. I thought Daddy was home." The girl looked at the phone in her mother's hand. "Who's on the phone, Mommy? Is it Daddy?"

"No, honey," Gracia said again, "it's Colonel Mustang."

"Oh," the child said, disappointed. "Does he know when Daddy's coming home?" Mustang clenched his jaw, trying to keep composed, but he could tell it was a losing struggle. He spoke.

"Gracia," he said, "I'm so sorry. This… this should never have happened," he said, voice hoarse. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"No, Roy," she said, also trying not to cry, "it's not your fault. Not at all. Don't blame yourself. I hope you don't blame yourself, Roy. Thank you for calling. It means a lot. I'll be fine. Thank you." She had begun to cry softly.

"Mommy," Roy heard Elysia say, "what's wrong? Why are you crying, Mommy? Don't cry!" His grip on the receiver tightened.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'll come by soon. I'm so sorry, Gracia."

"Of course, Roy," Gracia said. "You're welcome anytime. Thank you again for calling. It means a lot. I'll see you soon. Goodbye, Roy."

"Goodbye, Gracia." He put down the receiver slowly. Images of Hughes with his family had begun racing through Mustang's mind, and no matter what he did, he could not shake them.

He walked away from the phone and began to undress, trying to convince himself that after a good night's sleep and a long shower, he would be able to face the world. But as soon as he walked into his bedroom, the thought of sleeping suddenly made him restless. So he put his jacket back on and wandered around his measly collection of rooms, trying to find a modicum of peace. His stomach growled, but the thought of food sickened him, so he took out a half empty bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. He took a sip of it, and for a moment felt nothing but the smooth liquid sliding across his tongue and down his throat. The burning sensation that came with it drowned out the pain for a split second, and Mustang closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was gazing at the amber liquid. He looked away. _What are you doing, Roy? This isn't the way to solve things._ But the evil voice in the back of his mind egged him on. _**There's nothing to solve. Nothing but pain left, and this is what helps the pain.**_ Roy looked at the glass in his hand once more. He thought of what Hughes would think of him, reverting to alcoholism. Then he thought of the cold, stiff body in the morgue in Central, waiting to be interred. He lifted his hand and threw back the whole damn glass.


	3. Chapter 3

Riza woke with a jolt to her alarm. Black Hayate, who had jumped up onto her lap sometime during the night, shifted sleepily. Hawkeye rubbed her eyes groggily and looked around. She'd fallen asleep fully clothed, sitting in her kitchen. Her cold, untouched dinner was still sitting on the table. She sighed. _Well, at least I know I trained Black Hayate well._ She lifted the dog off her lap. He whined half-heartedly, but did not otherwise protest. Riza put away the food and took down her hair. After silencing her alarm, she stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the residue of tears from the previous night. She dressed and put up her hair, and then picked up the receiver to her telephone and dialed the Colonel's home number.

She waited for a few minutes as it rang, but eventually gave up and replaced the receiver on its stand. _He's probably in the shower_, she thought, patted Black Hayate, and locked up her apartment. She drove over to the Colonel's apartment, walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Colonel Mustang, sir," she called, "it's Lieutenant Hawkeye." She waited. Still no answer. She knocked again. "Sir?" She didn't think he'd have gone to work so early. She waited another minute or so, and then knocked again, more persistently this time. She stopped when she heard something slam against the other side of the door.

"Colonel Mustang? Sir? Are you all right? Sir!" She began to knock again, and the door opened a crack. "Colonel?"

"Riza… what are you doing here?" Mustang's voice was groggy and thick. He had just woken up.

"Sir, the day starts in twenty minutes. I thought you might need a ride to Command."

"Oh. Right. Listen. I don't feel so well today Lieutenant. I think I'll take the day off."

"With all due respect, sir," Riza said gently, "the longer you mourn, the harder it is t-"

"I said I'll take the day off, Lieutenant." Mustang's voice was angry. Riza snapped into a salute.

"Sir."

"Good day, Lieutenant." The door shut with as much force as it could for having been open so slightly. Riza dropped her salute, and stood looking at the closed door for a long moment. Then she turned away and went to work. Roy leaned his back against the door, slumped down until he was sitting on his floor, and rubbed his hands over his face. His head was pounding and his body ached, and now he felt even more like an asshole for having snapped at his Lieutenant. She was suffering, too. He knew that. He also knew he should apologize, but he wasn't sure he had the willpower. After antagonizing about it for a while, Mustang finally stood up and opened the door again. Riza was gone. He looked towards the stairs just in time to see her head and shoulders disappear. He thought about going after her, or at least calling her name, but the coward in him took over, and he just retreated back into his rooms instead. It was still dark inside them, and the brightness of the hallway was doing no wonders for his hangover. He slowly shut the door on the light of the world, and shuffled through his apartment back to his bedroom.

He collapsed onto his bed, and instantly regretted it as the pain in his head swelled and throbbed until he hurt so much he couldn't see. When it subsided a bit, Mustang took his hands off of his head and let them fall. One of them hit something solid and smooth. Roy looked down. The square bottle still held a little liquid. There was a slight stain on the carpet from where the whiskey had spilled when he'd finally passed out and dropped it last night. Roy's hand clasped the neck of the bottle. _Drink to get rid of a hangover… isn't that what they say?_ He lifted the bottle to his lips. _Well, I guess we'll see._ Roy coughed as the alcohol caught in his throat. He had forgotten to sit up. He rolled over and slid off the bed onto his knees, using the bottle he still clutched for support. When he was finally able to clear his throat, he sat back against the bed and took another swig of whiskey. He looked around his room. It was a wreck. He remembered one point in the night where he'd been angry at everything. He'd stumbled through his apartment, throwing things off the walls and knocking over furniture. He'd have tipped over his entire bureau had it not been for the picture standing on the top of it.

Mustang used the bed to pull himself to his feet, and kicked his way through the chaos to the where the dresser stood, undisturbed. He reached out with his free hand and grasped the simple metal frame, bleary eyes focused on the image it contained. Three sets of eyes stared back at him, three faces, three smiles. He saw his own face, looking so different from the one reflected in the shine of the glass. He saw Riza on his left, smiling for once in her life. She looked so beautiful when she smiled; it was almost painful. And then, on his left, he saw Hughes. The smile of adoring pride he usually wore for his daughter was slightly different in the picture. It was more serious, but at the same time more mischievous. Roy looked back at his own face and realized that he too had a bit of a conspiratorial smirk. Riza betrayed no emotion, even with a smile on her face. She never did. Mustang managed a weak smile as he imagined his Lieutenant laughing. It would be breathtaking. Then his smile turned to a grimace as he remembered his harsh words to her. He took another drink.

Mustang surveyed the picture of the three of them at his promotion ceremony for a few more minutes, trying to recall every detail of the day. _Hughes was happier than _I _was_, he thought. Tears once more began to well up inside him. Had he been sober, he knew, he would have been able to repress them, but the alcohol lessened his willpower, and he let them flow unimpeded. He remembered Gracia's words from the previous night, and passed a hand over his face, drawing in a shuddering breath.

"A nightmare, huh? If only that were so." His eyes were drawn to Riza's face in the picture, and a pang of guilt hit him once more, not only for his curtness, but also for his weakness. He was supposed to be the strong one. He was supposed to comfort her, to draw her into his arms and hold her when she was in pain. But now, when she was hurting, when she needed him, he did nothing. He wanted her to comfort him. He wanted her to cradle him in her arms and run her fingers through his hair. He wanted her to tell him that it _was_ all a bad dream. He wanted to hang in that moment for days. He wanted it all to stop. To end. To be over. He longed for oblivion.

Roy's hand slowly laid the picture down flat on the dresser. _Riza,_ he thought, as he once more raised the bottle tremulously to his lips, _I'm sorry._


	4. Chapter 4

Lieutenant Hawkeye was distracted. Breda could tell because he'd been standing in front of her for three solid minutes without her noticing. She was reading the same sentence over and over again, a blank look on her face. Her mind was obviously somewhere else. He couldn't blame her, he supposed. Everyone was grieving. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes had been such a constant presence in Colonel Mustang's office, even when it was just over the phone. The man hadn't been discriminatory in his glee about his daughter. He often told Colonel Mustang to pass the receiver to the nearest person so that he could brag to a new ear. The man was positively ebullient, and he had accosted everyone who worked in Colonel Mustang's office on multiple occasions. The special thing about him was that no matter how low your rank was, no matter how many people he had spoken to that day, he never forgot your name. Breda was a background person, and he knew it very well. He liked it that way. Nonetheless, the Lieutenant Colonel never failed to greet him, and in all his years of knowing Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, Breda had never once seen him forget a person's name. He was the last person anyone would expect to be a target. He was just too good of a person. But then, Breda supposed, that was the way it was. The good men died, and the bad men lived on. Breda sighed. _Though that doesn't make it any easier to cope with_. The sigh had alerted Lieutenant Hawkeye, though, and she looked up as if returning to reality from a far away, and somewhat unpleasant, land.

"Breda. How long have you been standing there?"

"About three minutes, Lieutenant." Riza put the document down.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I was distracted. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to disturb you, Lieutenant." His expression grew worried. "Are you all right, Hawkeye? You don't seem your normal self."

"No one's really their normal self right now, Second Lieutenant. Although you're right, I should be more attentive to matters at hand." She straightened up in Mustang's chair. "So what did you need, Breda?"

"Just a little concerned about Second Lieutenant Havoc, Lieutenant." Riza looked around the room.

"Is he still not here?"

"No, Lieutenant. And if he were sick he'd have called in by now." Riza stared at Breda for a moment.

"What are you saying, Breda? Do you think Havoc's in danger?" Breda shifted uncomfortably.

"Perhaps… from himself, Lieutenant." Riza's eyes widened.

"You don't think-"

"I don't think he'd go _that_ far, Lieutenant, but… well, he's already addicted to cigarettes. I don't want to see him get addicted to anything else. With all due respect, he's too valuable a soldier, and too good a friend, to lose to substance."

"You're right about that, Breda, but do you really think that Jean would do that?" Breda shifted again, but it was Falman who spoke.

"He was quite shaken yesterday, Lieutenant Hawkeye. We all were, of course, but he seemed to take it particularly hard." Riza furrowed her brow.

"I didn't think Havoc would be so devastated. I mean, it's certainly a huge blow, and it's not going to be taken lightly by anyone, but I wasn't aware that Havoc would be so affected. I didn't know that he and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes were that close."

"Um, I think it may have something to do with the time Havoc's father got sick," Fuery said timidly. All eyes turned to him. Riza spoke first.

"When was this?" Fuery looked down, reluctant to speak, but Riza was adamant. "Sergeant Major Kain Fuery, as your acting officer, in the interest of preserving Second Lieutenant Havoc's health and possibly life, I order you to tell me what you know. Now." Fuery snapped into a salute, and timidly obliged.

"It happened a couple of years ago, Lieutenant. Havoc's father caught a fairly rare disease, and the hospital in East City wasn't able to deal with it. He had to be transferred to Central Hospital. But Havoc's family isn't too well off," Fuery mumbled, embarrassed for his friend, "so he and his mother couldn't afford to stay in Central, much less pay the medical bills. Apparently Lieutenant Colonel Hughes found out about it, and insisted that Havoc and his mother stay at his house in Central. He also ended up paying all of the bills, just like that, not a thing expected in return. And, well, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes ended up essentially saving Havoc's father's life. I don't know if that has anything to do with it, but under the circumstances…" Fuery trailed off. Hawkeye, Breda, and Falman had listened in shock. Even Breda hadn't known about this.

"How did you…" Riza's voice faded away.

"I was visiting my little sister," Fuery replied. "She had broken her leg, and I ran into Havoc in the hallway." Riza was silent for a moment, then she stood up.

"Come on," she said, determination in her voice. "Let's go pay the Second Lieutenant a visit." The three men nodded, and followed her out of the office, her determined attitude infecting them all. After a short drive, they had reached Havoc's apartment, and Hawkeye turned to Breda.

"Are you sure that this is a legitimate possibility?" Breda nodded.

"Positive. I went to school with him. We sort of grew up together, actually. It's definitely legitimate." Riza nodded, and banged on the door with her fist.

"Havoc! This is First Lieutenant Hawkeye. Falman, Breda, and Fuery are here, too, so open this door right away, or we'll break it down." There was a moment of silence, and then a shuffling sound, a crash, a muffled curse, and more shuffling. The door opened a crack, and an overpowering stench of cigarette smoke came wafting out into the hallway. Riza didn't let that bother her, though. She placed one hand on the door and shoved it open, nearly knocking Havoc over. "Search," she shot over her shoulder to the men flanking her. They all nodded and fanned out into the apartment. Riza planted herself in front of Havoc, who was looking around in confusion.

"Hey! Hawkeye, what's the deal? What is all this? What do you want? Can't I skip a day of work if I want?"

"Not without calling in sick, you can't. Just what were you doing, Second Lieutenant?" Havoc gaped at her.

"Nothing! What do you mean what was I doing? What's going on here? And why are they going through all my stuff?" Havoc demanded, indignant.

"Just a hunch, Second Lieutenant," she said. Havoc's eyes grew wide.

"Look, Hawkeye, I can tell you right now that I'd rather die than betray-"

"Oh don't be silly, Havoc. We know you're not a traitor," Riza snapped.

"Lieutenant," said Breda, straightening up. He'd removed a corner of Havoc's table by merely pulling on it, and it had come off to reveal a hollow in the leg. Havoc's face went white as Breda lifted up a small black wallet. He opened it and dumped the contents onto the table next to a glass and an empty liquor bottle. Several needles fell out, as well as two small syringes and a little packet full of white powder. All activity in the room had ceased, and now Havoc slowly sank into the closest chair, face pale and hands shaking. Riza stared at him for a long moment, and then looked pointedly at Breda, who shook his head.

"It hasn't been used," he said, "but it was replaced hastily. The corner wasn't fully secured." Riza looked back down at Havoc, who was sitting with his face in his hands, trembling, silent.

"Havoc."

He didn't answer her.

"Havoc," she said again. He remained silent. Breda's hands had balled into fists, and he was clenching and unclenching his jaw, trying to remain calm. It didn't work. He stalked over to where Havoc was sitting. The movement caused the trembling man to look up, and Breda took the opportunity to punch him in the face as hard as he possibly could. Havoc flew backwards, knocking over the chair he'd been sitting in, and very nearly crashing directly into Hawkeye. However, he remained silent as he got to his hands and knees, and wiped away the thick stream of blood running from his nose onto his hardwood floor. Breda grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. The powerful man grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him.

"Just what the hell were you thinking? You told me you were past all that, you jackass! You _were_ past all that! What the hell did you think you were doing? What would your parents say, huh? What would they think of you? Did you even think about how devastated they'd be if you went back to that life? Did you even consider them at all?" Havoc just looked away. Breda punched him again, but held onto him. "You didn't even care, did you? Didn't give a rat's ass. Just wanted to trip away your sorrows. Jackass. Coward! What would Hughes think of you now?" At this, Havoc did respond. He punched his old friend with all his might, knocking him back and down, and he yelled at him.

"Hughes is dead!" Breda laughed wryly and wiped the trickle of blood off his face.

"Yeah, he is. And you're going to shoot up to fix that? Or are you actually going to do something with your life?"

"He's dead, and it's my fault!" Havoc screamed, tears suddenly streaming down his cheeks, mingling with the blood still running from his nostrils. "I owed him my life! You don't know anything about this! I owed him my life!"

"Yeah, I know about it," said Breda, getting to his feet. "Your dad got sick and had to come to Central, and you couldn't pay, so Hughes took you and your mom in and paid the bills."

"He saved his life," Havoc said, still screaming. "He saved my father's life!"

"Yeah," said Breda, "he was a good man, Hughes. Always happy to help, and never asked anything in return. And you're going to thank him for what he did for you by throwing your life down the drain? Ha! I knew you were stupid, Jean, but I didn't think you were a complete asshole. Guess I was wrong."

"I owe him my life!" Havoc had lunged forward and grabbed Breda's lapels. "I owed him my life, Heymans! It should have been me in that phone booth! I had less to lose! He saved my father! Because of him, I have a father! And now his daughter has to grow up without one! Tell me, is that fair? Is that right? It should have been me! I owed him my life, and it should have been me!" Havoc collapsed into great, heaving sobs. Breda stood motionless, jaw set against the tears he felt rising in his own eyes.

"Yeah," he said, voice raw with emotion. "You do owe him your life. So use it to do what he can't do now. Use it to save the lives he can't save anymore. Use it to make sure that no one else's little girl has to grow up without a father. But whatever you do, Jean, by God, don't throw it away on drugs!" Breda grasped his friend's shoulders firmly, and straightened the sobbing man up. "Come on, Jean," he said, shaking the young man just a bit, "don't do this to yourself. Not again. Not now, when you have so much going for you. Come on. Pull yourself together." Havoc was still holding onto Breda's jacket, and he tensed, trying to steady himself, but he ended up leaning his head against Breda's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Breda also hung his head, and continued to try to comfort his distraught childhood friend.

Fuery, Falman, and Riza had watched this exchange silently. Riza glanced over at the two quieter men. Fuery had begun to silently cry, and Falman, having noticed, had placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. They watched as Havoc slowly regained his composure, and stood straight, with Breda's help. When Riza was sure that the sniffling sound was because of the bloody noses and not the tears, she exhaled sharply.

"Well. Now that that's taken care of," she said, "Breda, Havoc, go clean yourselves up. Havoc, take a shower and get dressed. You smell like stale cigarettes and bad alcohol, and that's no way to appear in the workplace, especially in the military. Fuery, Falman, clean up Havoc's apartment for him a bit, will you? I'll deal with this." She moved towards the table to get the drugs, but Havoc stopped her.

"No, Riza. Breda's right. I need to put this behind me once and for all. I'll get rid of them." He walked with purpose over to the table, picked up the packet of white powder, and opened it. He poured it out into the sink, and turned on the tap, letting the water run until all trace of the substance was gone. Then he bent every one of the needles, and broke both syringes. The wallet he ripped to shreds. He threw it all in the garbage, and then took out a hammer and nails and secured the hidden corner from the bottom. It would not be opened again.

Havoc stood up, and saluted Hawkeye.

"With your permission, Lieutenant, I think I'll go take that shower you ordered me to take now." Riza nodded.

"Don't take too long, Second Lieutenant. We don't want to wait around here all day, and you _are_ coming back with us to Command."

"Yes, sir!" Havoc said. Riza cocked a miniscule smirk.

"Lieutenant will do fine, Havoc."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Havoc said, grinning. His teeth were bloody from where Breda had punched him. Riza shook her head.

"Well get going, then."

Twenty minutes later, Havoc's apartment looked less ransacked, and Havoc himself looked much less rugged. Riza led the way down the stairs to her car, and all five of them piled in and drove back to Command to finish what was left of the day. There was a much more jovial atmosphere in Mustang's office that afternoon, but Riza was even more troubled. She could only seem to think about that morning and her encounter with the Colonel. Her mind was racing at the thought that Mustang could be doing right then what they had just barely stopped Havoc from doing. It ate at her so much that she could barely focus from one word to the next. When the day finally ended, she left the office much earlier than usual, and raced over to Mustang's house, terrors bubbling up inside of her. She took the stairs two at a time, and knocked loudly on his door. She called his name, knocked, threatened, scolded, and knocked some more, but no matter what she did, he didn't answer. She stood back and considered the situation. He'd told her never to enter his house without his permission unless it was an emergency. But he had given her a spare key, just in case of said emergency. She took out her keys and considered some more, but then picked one out and inserted it into the keyhole. It fit, and turned smoothly. She took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The room was a wreck. The furniture was almost all overturned, there were books and papers everywhere, and above it all, there was the smell of alcohol. Riza stepped through the chaos to the hallway, and peered around the door to Mustang's bedroom. He was sprawled on his back in the same uniform he'd been wearing the day before. He was unshaven and unwashed, and the fingers of his right hand were curved gently about the slender neck of an empty whiskey bottle. There was another one in pieces by the wall. It looked as though it had been thrown.

The bedroom was chaos as well. Pictures had been strewn across the floor along with clothes and books, and in the middle of it all, Mustang slept more deeply than Riza had ever seen him sleep. He did not look peaceful. His face was set in a grimace of misery even as he slept. The last time Riza had seen him anything like this had been Ishval. The memories of that time were so painful. Riza took a steadying breath, and stepped towards the bed.

"Colonel," she said, not daring to touch him, but that elicited no response. She spoke louder. "Colonel. Colonel Mustang, it's me, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Please wake up, sir." Nothing. He hadn't even twitched. She wondered when the last time he'd eaten had been. She leaned over and touched him on the shoulder, but he didn't move. A sudden panic took her over, and she leaned close to him, checking for breath and a pulse. Both were present, and she sighed with relief, taking a seat on the bed. She looked down at her unkempt Colonel, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. She stayed with him for a few minutes, but then thought that it would probably be best if she were gone when he woke up. So she carefully got up and tiptoed her way back through the wreckage of his life. She hated to leave him in such a state, but if she surprised him with her presence upon waking, she wasn't sure what sort of a reaction he'd have, and she didn't want to chance it.

She'd never admit it to anyone, but she did love him. Seeing him in such a pitiable state tore at her soul, but what hurt even more was the fact that she couldn't comfort him. She closed the door to his apartment and locked it, and went quietly back down the stairs to her car. She drove quietly home, quietly took Black Hayate for his walk, quietly ate dinner, and quietly got ready for bed. It was only when she was under the covers that she curled into a fetal position and let the pain take over for yet another night.


	5. Chapter 5

Morning came too early for everyone. Riza rolled out of bed after a restless night, Havoc and Breda both woke with bad headaches and intense feelings of embarrassment, and Fuery and Falman each woke up with almost no will to face the day. When Mustang was jolted awake by his alarm radio, he cursed it, picked it up, and threw it across the room. It landed next to the whiskey bottle he'd hurled at the wall the previous day. However, when he attempted to return to a state of unconsciousness, he found himself unable to rest. He grudgingly sat up, and was immediately knocked to his knees. His head was pounding inconceivably, and when he finally regained his vision, the edges of it were tinted a light red color. He had run out of alcohol in the early afternoon the day before, and so he gathered up what cash he had and stumbled down the street to the corner store to spend it all. He didn't even bother to wait until he reached his apartment again to open one of the bottles. When he did finally make it up the stairs, his phone was ringing. He carefully set down the bag and picked up the receiver just to stop the blasted thing ringing.

"Hello?"

"Colonel Mustang, sir. It's Lieutenant Hawkeye. Are you coming to work today?" Roy had suddenly become uncomfortable.

"Hawkeye. Listen. About yesterday-"

"I was out of line, sir. Please accept my apologies." After a moment, Mustang let out a small sigh.

"Of course, Lieutenant. And I apologize for my words, as well. I was discourteous."

"Not at all, sir. You were perfectly within your rights." Mustang grimaced. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Riza spoke again. "Do you need me to take you to Command, sir?"

"No, Lieutenant, that won't be necessary." He looked sidelong at the bottles on his floor, and guilt and yearning flooded him at the same time. He quickly tore his gaze away. "Actually, I won't be at work at all today, Lieutenant. I have… business here to attend to."

Riza hesitated, but she knew her Colonel. There would be no persuading him from his course of action after he'd decided.

"Very well, sir," she said. "I'll inform the team."

"Very good, Lieutenant. Have there been any developments that I should be aware of since my absence?" Riza told him about Havoc. Roy listened in silence as she relayed the previous day's events. When she finished, he let out a small breath.

"Well. He's free of it now, you're sure?"

"I've been watching him fairly closely, sir. So have the others. He seems to have recovered from his momentary lapse."

"Good. And the others?"

"Breda seems to be taking it best out of all of them, sir. His only real display of grief was yesterday in Havoc's apartment."

"Hm. Not surprising, I suppose. How is Fuery holding up?"

"Not too well, sir. He's silent about it, but sometimes when I see him he's crying. He functions normally, though. He's stronger than people give him credit for."

"Yes. And Falman?"

"Falman… he's hard to read, sir. I can tell he's affected. He's working even harder than normal. He's picked up a lot of information, but seems to think that none of it is worth anything. He apparently has it all memorized, though."

"Then he's taking it hard. He'd never waste all that time memorizing documents he had at his disposal. Keep an eye on him, Lieutenant. It's men like him who break when you least expect it."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I had better not keep you any longer, Lieutenant. You'll be late. Are you handling everything all right without me?"

"Yes, sir, although there is some paperwork that requires your presence."

"Is it urgent?"

"No, sir, not particularly."

"Good. Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Have a good day, sir." Roy managed a harsh laugh.

"Right. You too, Hawkeye." Riza clenched her jaw as the Colonel hung up. She berated herself mentally for the slip as she drove to Command.

Throughout the day, she took Mustang's advice and watched Falman a little more closely. Whenever he came into the office, she studied his expression, his movements, his tone of voice, and compared them to the past. He was being even more analytical than normal. The day passed, however, without incident, and at the end of the day, while no one was particularly happy, at least no one had broken down. Fuery still had the occasional tear streaming down his cheek, but Havoc and Breda seemed to be doing well, considering the emotional strain they'd both undergone the previous afternoon. Riza decided to check on Falman, just in case the Colonel was right. She called him into the office before she left.

"Falman. A word?" Falman stepped inside the office, and shut the door.

"What is it, Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Riza looked him straight in the eye.

"Falman… are you all right?" He returned her piercing stare with a blank one.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant. What makes you ask? Is my work not satisfactory?"

"It's not that, Falman. It's a bit of the opposite, actually. You're throwing yourself into your work almost zealously. It's of some concern to me… you're not your normal self, Warrant Officer."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, no one's really their normal selves right now."

Riza stared him down. "Sit down, Warrant Officer." Falman sat. "Now listen. We're all hurt by this immensely. I wish we had time to grieve, but we don't. We have far too much work to do, and we can't afford anyone else being emotionally traumatized. You are the oldest and the most sensible of the Colonel's subordinates. That puts you in an authority position. Since the Colonel is indisposed at the moment, that means that you and I have to look after the others. Havoc, Breda, and Fuery—especially Fuery—need to see us being strong, indomitable, and above all normal. We may not feel like everything is the same as it always was, but in times of crisis such as this, we must act like it. I'm sorry to have to force this burden on you, Falman, but no matter what we do, we must not fall apart. We have worked far too hard for that. So tomorrow when you come into work, I'll expect you to act and work as you would normally do. Can you do that, Warrant Officer?"

Falman sat, staring into space for a long time. Then he stood up, nodded, and left the room. As he drove home, he mulled over the Lieutenant's words. She was right. He needed to be strong. Not only for the others, but also for himself. He sighed, and passed his hand over his face. He was tired. He hadn't been able to sleep very well just recently. When he finally got home, he opened the door to his first-floor apartment, and greeted the two exuberant children that came bounding towards him as soon as he stepped inside. He forced a smile onto his face, not that he wasn't genuinely happy to see them, and asked them to tell him all about their days at school. They both started speaking at the same time, and Falman laughed and told them to slow down.

"Let your sister go first," he told his son.

"Whyyyyyyyy?" he whined.

"Because you're older." Falman picked up his daughter, who stuck her tongue out at her brother.

"Mommyyyyyyy!" the young boy ran to his mother, who was cooking dinner. "She stuck her tongue out at me!" Falman's wife laughed, and ruffled her son's hair. Vato went over to her and kissed her on the cheek. She beamed at him, just like always.

The family ate, talked, laughed, cleaned up the kitchen, and then the parents put the children to bed, and Falman poured himself a brandy. He sat at his coffee table, flipping through some papers he'd taken home with him. His wife came and sat next to him.

"The children are asleep now, Vato, and you've been strained all night. You've been strained for the past couple of days, actually. What's happened? I hate to see you suffering like this." She placed a gentle hand on his forearm. Falman hesitated, then put down the papers, and covered her small hand with his.

"Honey, you remember Maes Hughes, right?" His wife nodded. "He… He was killed Monday night." Falman's wife gasped. Falman looked away.

"Oh, Vato," she whispered, shocked. "Honey, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me?" Falman tightened his grip on his wife's hand as that horrible feeling began in the pit of his stomach. He turned his face farther away from his wife when he felt the tears start to well up. "Vato?" she asked gently, concerned.

"Because," he managed to choke out, "every time I tried, I thought about his wife and daughter, and I just…" The tears began to flow. "I just couldn't…" Falman turned to his wife, and took her shoulders in his hands. "I just keep thinking that it could have been me. I could have been the one in that phone booth, I could have been the one to leave you a widow to raise the kids, I could have been the one to die and leave you alone, to devastate you, and that scares me. It scares me so much. And every time I remember him pulling out a picture of his child, I see _my _children, and every time I remember him showing us pictures of his wife, I see you, and I imagine how sad they must be, how distraught, and I see that expression on your faces and it scares me. I don't want to do that to you. I never want to see you cry.

I want to see my children grow up and get married and have children of their own, and I want to get old with you, and I'm so scared that I'll die and leave you alone just like the Lieutenant Colonel did. I'm scared of that. I'm so scared. Why should he have been the one to die? Why should his family have had him snatched away from them? It might have been any of us. It might have been me. Hughes didn't deserve to die. He was such a good man. And I just can't come to grips with the fact that my kids get to grow up with a father while his little girl has to grow up without one. It isn't fair. It shouldn't be this way. I shouldn't be this lucky. I shouldn't be alive while he's dead. I have no right to be. I could never be as good a man as he was. Why did he have to die?" Falman buried his head in his wife's shoulder and wept as she held him, soothing him, shedding tears of her own.

"Would you rather have died in his place and left me and the children alone? It's not your fault, Vato. It's horrible, and things like it shouldn't happen, but you can't blame yourself for a murder you didn't commit."

"I know. I just can't help feeling like I have no right to be alive while he's dead. I keep thinking of his daughter. Does she even know what happened? Can she even understand it yet? She must be so confused…" He trailed off, clutching his wife closer to him. They sat for a long time, holding each other. Falman's wife attempted to comfort her husband, but he was inconsolable. Eventually, she helped her morose, guilt-stricken husband to his feet, and put him to bed. He fell quickly into an uneasy sleep, but she stayed awake for a long time, crying quietly to herself in the dark. The sleep she did finally fall into was restless, and when she woke the next morning, there was a black envelope in the mail.


	6. Chapter 6

Roy stared at it for a long time. It wasn't doing anything particularly treacherous, just sitting there on his table. But it felt ominous. Roy took another drink. Then he reached out and picked it up. It was heavy. The seal of Amestris was embossed in shiny silver ink into the thick, black parchment, along with Roy's address and a return address of Central Headquarters. His hands shook as he opened it.

The letter inside was on regular military stationery, which bore the seal in dark blue. _Col. Roy Mustang_, it read, _You are invited to attend the funeral of Lt. Col. Maes Hughes at 2 PM on Saturday, at the Military Cemetery in Central City. The late Lt. Col. will be promoted to the rank of Brigadier General for his ultimate sacrifice and commendable devotion to the safety of the people of Amestris._

Roy stared at the letter for a long time. He reread it three times before setting it down. It was well past noon. Roy got up and went over to the telephone. He dialed, and waited.

"Colonel Mustang's office, how may I help you?" said Riza's voice in a monotone.

"Hawkeye." Roy's voice was husky with drink.

"Colonel Mustang, sir." Everyone in Mustang's office stopped what they were doing and stared at the receiver in Riza's hand.

"Did you get one?" Riza stiffened, and thought back to the letter lying open on her table next to its black envelope.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly.

"And the others?"

"Yes, sir. They all got one, too." In unison, every single member of Mustang's team looked down at the ground, as though they'd all been struck with some invisible force simultaneously. Roy took a breath.

"Can you make arrangements for all of us to attend?"

"Yes, sir. Consider it done."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Oh, and Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Have my room set apart from the others."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." Mustang hung up. Riza held her position for a moment, but then replaced the receiver on its stand.

"So," Havoc said after a moment, "what's the deal?"

"We'll all be attending the Lieutenant Colonel's funeral tomorrow. The Colonel has asked me to make the necessary arrangements."

"He's not coming into work?" asked Breda.

"No." The tone of Riza's voice made it very clear that that was the end of the conversation. She pulled the telephone directory out of Mustang's desk, and dialed their usual hotel's number. She reserved the rooms, making sure to include Mustang's request for a secluded one. Then she called the train station and booked tickets. She billed it all to Mustang's office account, just like she did with everything he told her to "make arrangements for". She called ahead to Central to let them know they were coming, and then got back to work. The team was quiet and industrious for the rest of the day. Hawkeye could tell that Falman had taken what she'd said to heart. At the end of the day, she reminded the team that they had only a few hours to pack for the weekend since she had booked the tickets for the 10:50 train, and told them not to be late to the station. Then she went back home and called Mustang. He picked up almost immediately.

"Hawkeye," he said. It was not a question.

"The train to Central leaves at 10:50, sir. Would you like me to pick you up?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, thank you."

"Of course, sir. I'll be there at 10."

"I'll see you then, Lieutenant."

"Goodbye, sir." Riza hung up, and began to pack. Mustang replaced the receiver, and finished off the bottle he held before beginning to gather his own things. He took a shower, shaved, and changed clothes, none of which he'd done since he'd gotten the news. At the end of his shower, he turned the water to cold to shock himself into sobriety. Then he got into his formal uniform, which was such a dark navy that it was almost black, and draped the sash of mourning over his shoulder. It wasn't a particularly cold night, but he wore his overcoat anyway. He thought for a split second about leaving the two bottles he had left, but his cowardice won out again, and he packed them up carefully so that they wouldn't break. When ten o'clock came, he was standing on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, as sober as he could be for having spent all but the last hour of the past four days drowning in whiskey. Riza pulled up in the standard, military-issue car, and Mustang got in without a word. He didn't even comment on the fact that Black Hayate was sitting in the back seat, wearing his leash.

The rest of the team was already assembled at the station. Riza picked up the tickets, and they found their train and boarded it. Riza had managed to get them a private compartment once again, and once again Mustang took a window seat and spent the trip staring silently out the window. No one dared to confront him about his pronounced absence from the workplace. Jean smoked even more than usual, constantly going in and out of the compartment. They finally arrived at ten minutes past midnight, and when they disembarked, there were two cars waiting for them. They were ferried to the hotel, where the innkeeper showed them their rooms. Mustang's was appropriately on the other side of the building from where the team slept. It made Riza antsy, not being able to conveniently listen for any trouble that may befall her Colonel, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she swallowed her worry and retreated into her room.

She let Black Hayate off his leash, and fed and watered him. She'd take him out for a walk in the morning, before the funeral. She undressed and got into her nightclothes, and then sat on the bed, watching her dog eat. She slipped into sleep after only a few minutes, but she found no real rest. Mustang undressed and hung up his uniform, and then got into his pajamas and sat on the bed, staring at the two unopened bottles in his suitcase. He reached for one, hesitated, then took them both and hid them in the bottom drawer of the small dresser in his room. He would not show up to his best friend's funeral drunk. He turned the light off and the fan on, and gingerly lay down on the bed. The hangover he'd managed to drown in alcohol for most of the day was beginning to manifest itself, and Roy tossed and turned for an hour or so before finally drifting off into an uneasy sleep. Central City was quiet that night, and the dawn broke crisp and early, filling the clear sky with pale, rose-coloured light.


End file.
